


Acquainted With the Night

by DaughterOfKings



Category: The Shadow Campaigns - Django Wexler
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Military Backstory, Minor Character Death, Pre-Series, poor Marcus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 04:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8087698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterOfKings/pseuds/DaughterOfKings
Summary: Generally speaking, Adrecht Roston didn’t give a damn what his fellow cadets at the War College got up to after curfew. It was only the noise- the unmistakable sound of a body sliding down the barracks wall, followed by a low groan- that brought him out of his quarters.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The title of this fic comes from a Robert Frost poem. 
> 
> 2) Anyone who's been to West Point will see its influence on my depiction of the War College. Credit my upbringing for that.
> 
> 3) Many thanks to the small but mighty TSC fandom on Tumblr for their constant encouragement!

Generally speaking, Adrecht Roston didn’t give a damn what his fellow cadets at the War College got up to after curfew. He’d learned early on that staying out of their affairs made them more likely to stay out of his, and so he’d become the very soul of discretion. Really, it was only the noise- the unmistakable sound of a body sliding down the barracks wall, followed by a low groan- that brought him out of his quarters.

Whoever it was, they were undoubtedly in a state that, if discovered, would result in some form of mass punishment for the entire company. That was something Adrecht, who’d long ago passed the ignoble “century” mark, having been made to stand over a hundred hours of guard duty, preferred to do without.

He heard another groan as his eyes adjusted to the dark night. He turned in the direction it had come from and spotted the blue-clad figure lying in the dirt. He stifled a sigh and closed the distance between them, reaching down to haul the other cadet to his feet. As he did so, he caught a strong whiff of the foul, home-brewed liquor the taverns around the College were known for.

The cadet had drunk far too much of the stuff to stand unaided, but he did manage to lift his head enough for Adrecht to make out his face.

D’Ivoire.

They’d all heard the rumors about what had happened to his family. Still, Adrecht hadn’t figured him to be the type to crawl into a bottle to cope; he was a rules and protocol man like all of his insufferably dull fellows, and, unlike Adrecht, far closer to the top of the class than to the bottom.

Or, at least, he had been.

Adrecht had no idea how many nights d’Ivoire had devoted to heavy drinking, or what impact they’d had on his standing. Nor did he particularly care. Right then, he just wanted the other cadet to avoid vomiting on his boots, and said as much.

“Wouldn’t make them look worse,” d’Ivoire muttered.

“Oh?” Adrecht arched an eyebrow. “That’s a rather rude thing to say to the man who’s helping you back to your quarters out of the goodness of his heart.”

D’Ivoire tensed up and dug his heels in. “Not my quarters,” he insisted. “Not there. Don’t want to wake Robbie. He’d have to report me.”

Adrehct snorted. “Not even Englise is that much of a stickler for propriety. You two are friends.”

“And I won’t make him lie for me,” d’Ivoire said, sounding firm despite how his words slurred.

“But you don’t mind making me lie for you, is that it?” Adrecht asked dryly.

“Officers never bother questioning you. Adrecht Roston sees no evil, hears no evil, speaks no evil.”

It was startlingly perceptive remark for someone who was verging on unconsciousness, and it made Adrecht sigh in resignation. “All right,” he said. “Come with me, then.”

He steered the two of them into his quarters and kicked the door shut. D’Ivoire tried to make it to the desk chair, missed, and toppled onto the floor instead. After a moment’s struggle, he got himself into a sitting position with his back against Adrecht’s bunk, head lolling onto the thin mattress.

“Where’s your bunkmate?” he asked.

“Out,” Adrecht said shortly, trying hard not to be envious. He rummaged around for his canteen and, finding it more than half full, tossed it over, saying, “Drink. It’ll help.”

D’Ivoire’s answer was a bitter laugh, but he did as he’d been told, emptying the canteen in a few swallows. “It wasn’t the goodness of your heart,” he said once he’d finished.

Adrecht shot him a bemused look. “What?”

“You. This. Not leaving me out-” D’Ivoire gestured vaguely toward the door. “You said it was out of the goodness of your heart, but it wasn’t.”

Adrecht didn’t think it was worth explaining to a drunk man that he’d been joking. “Does it matter?” he said instead.

“Doesn’t it?” d’Ivoire countered.

Adrecht rolled his eyes. “We’re not in a rhetoric class. Look, d’Ivoire, I-”

“Marcus.”

“What?”

D’Ivoire lifted his head just enough to look Adrecht squarely, if blearily, in the eye. “My name. It’s Marcus.”

“I know,” Adrecht answered.

“There... aren’t many people who call me that anymore.”

“I know.” Adrecht thought about saying more, but his eloquence had abandoned him. 

D’Ivoire- Marcus- let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Just when Adrecht thought he’d fallen asleep, he said, “You’re not going to tell me it’ll be better in the morning?”

“Not with the hangover you’re going to have,” Adrecht answered quickly.

Marcus made an irritable sound. “Not that. I mean... I...”

“Marcus.” Adrecht knelt down and touched his knee, waiting till he’d forced his eyes back open. “I know.”


End file.
